Cold War: Two ice-cream vendors fight for prime turf

Parked in his usual spot on a tree-lined street in the Upper Beaches, Liaqat Ali stands in front of his Donkey Kone truck and shakes his head. Just across the street, Mohammad Alkhatatbeh sells his own frozen treats to a steady line of customers for less, far less.

“Anytime I sell ice cream, he sells it for a lower price,” Mr. Ali says, pointing to his competitor. “Yesterday I sold a cone for 25¢.”

Summer may still be a distant dream for those enduring Toronto’s cool, wet spring, but the ice cream wars have already begun. Though an annual city-issued license permits trucks to travel freely throughout the city, hostility over which vendors can sell ice cream on which routes sparks nasty territorial battles: Screaming matches, threats and tricks to undercut competitors’ business are said to be regular occurrences for the city’s 118 licensed ice cream truck vendors.

Mr. Ali has seen some of those tactics before, but for the last seven years he has had steady business in the Upper Beaches. He usually parks near Malvern and Swanwick avenues to catch the afternoon crowds pouring out of Malvern Collegiate Institute and Notre Dame Catholic High School.

Then Mr. Alkhatatbeh showed up two weeks ago, parking his own truck nearby. He has only been in the business for a year, but Mr. Alkhatatbeh says he has been chased out of other parts of the city by territorial drivers. His attempt to stake a claim on Mr. Ali’s turf seems to be working: Students say they have purchased ice cream cones from Mr. Alkhatatbeh for as little as 10¢, or were given them for free.

While disputes between drivers rarely become violent, vendors say competition is ruthless.

“It’s a cut-throat business,” says Chris Karadimas, owner of Donkey Kone & Johnny Cones Ice Cream, for whom Mr. Ali works. “Mr. Ali’s been doing that route for maybe seven years, and someone else comes in who’s new in the business and parks in his regular spot. No regards for anything and doesn’t care about anything and just takes half of his business away.”

Before they hit the road with their popsicles, ice cream sandwiches and slushies, prospective vendors must apply for a license, undergo a background check and have their vehicles inspected, says Bruce Robertson, director of licensing services for the City of Toronto. A license does not limit drivers to a particular geographic area, but they can’t park within 30 metres of ferry docks, entrances to parks or schools.

Other than that, drivers are left to sort out amongst themselves where they operate.

“My understanding within the industry is there’s a bit of an unwritten rule about where somebody’s territory is, but it’s certainly nothing that the city decides,” Mr. Robertson says.

In the Upper Beaches, tensions between Mr. Ali and Mr. Alkhatatbeh have given way to a cat-and-mouse game. Witnesses have seen Mr. Alkhatatbeh follow Mr. Ali’s truck around the neighbourhood, deliberately parking right behind him. The men have shouted at each other, or shouted competing prices to passersby. One witness says a man working for Mr. Alkhatatbeh has been out talking to neighbourhood residents, promising a lower price if they buy from his truck.

Mr. Karadimas says offering ice cream for a lower price is a common tactic in the industry, and it can go two ways.

“Let’s say Mr. Ali has an established route and someone wants to move in and operate for 50¢. That’s one way,” he says. “Another way is we have an established location and someone new comes in … we’ll offer it for 50¢ to protect our location.”

But the competition goes beyond undercutting prices, says John (not his real name), a single-truck operator who has worked in the city’s east end for 20 years. He asked that his real name not be used for fear of reprisal from rival vendors: “You won’t believe what some of these people do.”

He accuses fleet companies of sending several vehicles to saturate a neighbourhood with their high-pitched jingles. Not only do single-truck operators lose market share as a result of this strategy, but residents complain about the noise blasting from multiple trucks as they clog the streets where their children play.

“People don’t know what ice cream truck is what,” John says, adding that he has very few loyal customers. “When they see an ice cream truck coming on their street all the time, they get mad. Parents only have so much money to buy ice cream for their kids.”

Throw in weekly verbal confrontations with other drivers and attacks by teenagers who spit at him or throw eggs at his truck and there is little left to recommend a career in the business.

John suggests the city assign vendors to defined areas to avoid conflict and the excess of trucks, many of which he suspects are unlicensed.

“You want a license, you have to have an area,” he says. “You don’t have an area, no license. No competition, no argument.”

On Swanwick Ave., loyalties are divided as students linger between the two trucks. On this particular day, Mr. Alkhatatbeh’s truck wins the battle: A line-up of teenagers gravitates towards his soft-serve cones, while passing children itching for a sugar fix tug at their parents’ sleeves.

For now, Mr. Ali does not have a strategy to keep intruders out of his neighbourhood.

“I said [to Mr. Alkhatatbeh], ‘Please, it’s my school. Go to another school.’” Even if that doesn’t happen, Mr. Ali is adamant about keeping the area he has known for seven years. “Everyone knows me here.”